Bird of Lithgow
by library.of.trifles
Summary: "Morwenna tells me to think more on what is in my hands than what is in my head, as idle fears are just that—idle. But I have always given my imagination its way, and cannot reign it in now. I hope I like Lithgow. And I hope I like Stephen." A sequel to Catherine Called Birdy by Karen Cushman.
1. Chapter 1

**_26th day of September_**

I had not thought to write again, leastaways not until after the wedding, but then James my father's clerk came to me with a big stack of very fine paper, almost as good as the vellum I had been stealing (and a great deal more even around the edges) and said if I wouldn't tell my father, he wouldn't.

As it is very nice paper (though it does run a little) I have determined to make use of it.

* * *

**_28th day of September_**

Previously the wedding was to take place in October, but Stephen cannot return to his seat at Lithgow immediately. It seems Shaggy Beard's death has left Stephen's duties as tangled as my spinning, and he must see to all of his holdings before we are wed, and has declared that the bumps and troubles of travel would make me an ill honeymoon. So instead the betrothal is set for the middle of October, the proper wedding and bride-ale to follow next year at Lithgow.

As sure as I was that my beast of a father would force Shaggy Beard upon me, now I fear equally that some mishap will prevent my betrothal to Stephen. Having been saved from Shaggy Beard—by his own vile nature, I will add, though as he is dead I should bear him no rancor—I am as cheerful about my future as I ever have been. There are a great many advantages to marriage that I had not seen before. Even if Stephen is dull, ugly or stupid, being his wife will certainly be better than being Rollo of Stonebridge's daughter. For one thing, in his barony are five holdings, each of which requires regular visits from their great-lord. If I do not like him, undoubtedly I can convince him that I am delicate and should be left home at Lithgow. Noblemen always expect ladies to be delicate.

But I hope that I do like him. Of all my suitors, he has pleased both my father and myself the most, loath though I am to admit to anything in common with the beast. My father likes him because he is rich, many times richer even than Fulk. And I like him because he is not Shaggy Beard, and because Shaggy Beard did _not_ like him.

I have imagined him a thousand times since the joyous news of Shaggy Beard's demise. I hope that he will be tall, broad-shouldered and muscled like John Swann, but with the cleverness of Perkin, the bearing of George (before Aelis), the golden hair and angelic features of Geoffrey, and the kindness of Edward. I can hardly wait to meet him.

* * *

**_5th day of October_**

I have no time to write anymore. As soon as I begin to sidle away in hopes of penning a few words, Morwenna pulls me by the ear back to the solar, where I must submit to all the teasing and gossiping of my mother's ladies. I am determined that when I am chatelaine of Lithgow my friends will love what I love, and will not needle me endlessly about this and that. God's thumbs! If another tittering lady babbles to me about my virginity, I will stuff her mouth full of feathers.

* * *

**_7th day of October_**

At least this endless weaving and sewing will benefit me, and not merely the chapel altar. We are stitching clothes for me to take into my new life, though thankfully my mother and the others do the fine work. As tedious as it is to sew endless seams down the sides of new kirtles, shifts and surcotes, I would mislike still more to embroider endless flowers and vines and birds onto my wedding clothes. So the ladies-in-waiting do that. Are they good at embroidering birds because they are, themselves, as full of meaningless tweeting as a bird? Or do they grow to be like the birds they embroider? I think I will ask them.

* * *

**_8th day of October_**

I asked them. They did not think it funny, nor did they answer save to turn my gowns back over to me so that I can embroider them myself. Curse my too-free tongue.

* * *

**_9th day of October_**

My mother has made me apologize for my rudeness, and a full day's awful embroidery has been unpicked and redone by the lady Margaret, who glares at me the while. Oh, how I long for Stephen to arrive! I am sure he will be a much more pleasant companion than these ladies, who cannot take a jest.

* * *

**_10th day of October_**

Margaret's embroidery really _is_ much better than mine. She was somewhat appeased when I told her so, and has since ceased to scowl at me over every stitch.

* * *

**_13th day of October_**

Have left off sewing today to help clean the hall. We do not ordinarily clean the manor so thoroughly until spring, but my father has it in his head to impress our coming guests. He mislikes that I am underfoot, covered in ashes from the fireplaces and dirt from the floor, but he would like even less for the manor to be sooty upon Stephen's arrival, and so I am let to wield a cloth alongside the servants.

I have found out a little more about our visitors today. Stephen will arrive with several of his men, including his cook and squires, for while he will not need his travelling household under our roof he will need them as he tours his other holdings. He also brings with him horses, hounds and provisions. We will perform the handfasting the day after he arrives, and then spend the next fortnight in feasting and celebration, after which he will continue on his journey. Those two weeks are the only wedding-feast our household will enjoy, for the wedding itself will be at Lithgow, and my family will not be present. My father does not like to travel, and my mother is yet too delicate from Ella's coming. Instead, when spring arrives and it is time for me to journey to my new home, Robert and my new sister Aelis will accompany me, along with Robert's men and Morwenna to see me settled in. As tiresome as Morwenna can be, I rejoice to the heavens that she accompanies me to my new life, for I will know none at Lithgow. I am afeared that I will be disappointed. Morwenna tells me to think more on what is in my hands than what is in my head, as idle fears are just that—idle.

But I have always given my imagination its way, and cannot reign it in now. I hope I like Lithgow. I hope I like Stephen.

* * *

**_14th day of October_**

Stephen arrives tomorrow. Can think of nothing else to say except I hope I like him.

* * *

**_16th day of October, after compline_**

I have met him, and we are betrothed.

Stephen and his retinue arrived at nones yesterday. First came an outrider, at whose appearance my mother and Morwenna positively accosted me, stuffing me into my third-best new kirtle, which is yet nicer than my first-best old kirtle. My hair, freshly-cleaned, was combed and dressed with flowers and ribbons. I consider I am fortunate to be fine-haired, for while it often makes the hair atop my head unmanageable, it means too that my eyebrows are so wispy as to be near invisible, and I was spared a painful plucking.

Soon came the full company, Stephen at the fore. My father, mother, Robert and I greeted him at the door, where I had my first good view of my future husband. I find that he is both better and worse than I had hoped. Better, because he is inoffensive in appearance and manner, unlike his father; worse, because in the last month I have allowed my fancy to run away, and could hardly help but be disappointed when he did not look like Geoffrey. But I will endeavor to describe him.

He has dark hair which neither curls nor lies straight, and unfashionably heavy eyebrows which dominate not just his light grey eyes but the rest of his face likewise. A long nose, a small mouth, all his own teeth. So tall that I stared at his shirt through much of the handfasting. Hands clean, but face stubbled from travel. Breath neither sweet nor foul. I would place his age between fifteen and eighteen; I cannot guess better than that, for although his face is unlined and his limbs hale, his eyes are grave and serious.

He is too broad of shoulder to be called effeminate, too lean to be called rugged. His features are too regular to be called ugly, but too unusual to be called beautiful. He is too dark to be angelic, too clear-eyed to be beastly. In short, although he is far from the handsomest man I have ever met, he is none so hideous. As I am, myself, caught between ugly and beautiful, I think it only fair that we should match. Even if he were uglier, at least he would not be Shaggy Beard.

The handfasting was done quickly enough in front of the church where all could see. Stephen gave me a ring of gold with a blob of emerald in it, but it is too big for any of my fingers and I have wound a string around the back of it until it can be made smaller. Then everyone adjourned to the great hall for wine and meat. I of course sat beside my betrothed, and found all so overwhelming I confess I could hardly think of what to say. Stephen asked me politely about my home, and I just as politely answered him—indeed, I fear my mother didn't recognize me for how civil I was. In truth, I was too petrified to say very much at all, and quite by accident slipped into a fine lady's role: quiet, meek, with eyes downcast and hands folded. After a while, as Stephen's questions failed to spark a conversation with me, he turned to one of his men and spoke mostly to him the rest of the evening. I was glad for the reprieve and spent the rest of my meal trying not to drip grease onto the tablecloth, though in general I would not take so much trouble. You see what being practically married has done to me!

* * *

**_20th day of October_**

I have hardly seen Stephen at all these last four days, though on one occasion he happened upon me playing with one of his hounds in the yard and even spared me a smile. Smiling much improves his features, I think. Can the same be said of me? I will have to check.

Our conversation went like this:

"Do you like Hector?" he asked, indicating the very fine boarhound with whom I was playing tug-of-stick.

"I do," said I. "He is a gracious dog and begs at table most genteelly."

"He does, does he not?" A silence. Then, "Are you fond of animals in general?"

"Some," said I. "I adore dogs, tolerate goats, and used to keep birds until I let them all go. Now I have nineteen empty cages."

"Why did you set them free?" asked Stephen. "Did you tire of their song?"

"I could never tire of birdsong," I answered, "but I let them go when I thought I was to marry your father."

Another silence, even longer. "Would you have let them go if you knew you were to marry me instead?" he asked, nothing in his voice save polite inquiry. I could not tell if I was insulting him, or what it might mean to him if I did, because he does not show very much on his face.

"Perhaps not," I admitted. "I was distraught. It was an impetuous act." Most of mine are.

"You were not eager, then, for the match?"

"It was not my decision," I said very meekly. "I am told what to do and rarely have a choice in doing it."

"And so you freed your birds instead," said he thoughtfully.

"Yes. I wish now that I had kept one or two, though. Their song was very cheering."

"Yes, of course," said he distantly, and soon after left. Now I am sure he was offended, and have no idea how to make amends. I do not like our first real conversation to be an insult to his family, but then again, why should he not know Shaggy Beard was not my choice? It is not as though I pretended to be in love with either of them, father or son. Still, my guts are in a turmoil and I have slept but ill the last few nights. As severe as he may be, I do not dislike Stephen. He is kind to animals and servants, and well-spoken—for a Northerner.

* * *

**_21st day of October_**

Stephen has a very poor singing voice. I heard him singing an ale-song with his men at dinner. My ears still ache. But he looked up and saw me laughing at him, and stopped abruptly. Now my gut aches as well, for guilt. Will I never say or do the right thing?

* * *

**_22nd day of October_**

A travelling merchant came to Stonebridge with his cart and pony today. My father gave me a ha'penny and told me to buy something to make me pretty. I spent it on a carved horn cup for Ella. When my father found out, he roared at me for disobeying him and wasting his money, to which I retorted, "What does it matter what I look like? You'll have your rich son-in-law whether I am comely or not. It cannot be undone now." Then I ran away before he could box my ears. I am glad I spent the money on Ella, for she will grow up without me, and ought to have something to remember her elder sister by.

* * *

**_24th day of October_**

Spent the day hiding in the pasture with Perkin. When I returned, my mother asked crossly where I had been, and I lied and said I was in the dovecote. But she smelled goat on me and I am now locked in my room for the rest of today and tomorrow. I don't see why she should be so angry about it. It isn't as if I spent the day rolling about with Perkin. But when I said that, she said it didn't matter what I did, it matters only what I seem to do. That is when she locked me in.

* * *

**_26th day of October_**

Stephen said he'd missed me, and asked where I had been the last few days. I was surprised, as I had not thought he took any notice of me. I told him I was outside and then in my room all day, painting on my walls.

"I did not know you painted," he said with some interest.

"I wanted to run away to my brother's abbey to paint manuscripts, but I waited too long and can no longer pass for a boy."

"I wanted to run away to an abbey, too," he said, looking surprised. "When I was younger, at least."

"Why did you not?" I asked. "You at least would not have had to disguise yourself as a boy."

"My father had no other boys," he said. At which I felt very foolish, and also a little sorry for him—neither of us is as free as we should like. "I am glad you waited too long," he said seriously. "Perhaps someday you will paint the walls at Lithgow. They are very bare at present." Then he went off to talk to his men.

My guts are in a turmoil again. I do not know what to think. I will go soothe myself with almonds.

* * *

_**28th day of October**_

I feel as if Perkin's popinjay is caught in my belly, beating at my ribs like the bars of a cage. Am I ill? I think I ate too many almonds.

* * *

_**31st day of October, All Hallow's Eve**_

Even the stern Stephen rollicked with the rest this eve. I saw him hollering and dancing with his men and Robert in the yard. With his men he talks more like a Northerner, all full of broad _tha's_ and _thee's_. It might as well be Abbyssinian for all I can make of it. I watched the revelers from the solar, where I was coddling little Ella. The shouts and booms from outside startled her, and she wailed incessantly save when someone held her. My mother is not yet strong enough to pace the floor endlessly, patting a baby; and the nurses are all celebrating.

But I lit a small bonfire in a brazier for just Ella and me, and threw sage and thyme on it to make the room smell sweet and to ward off spirits. No witches will take her while I am around. I held her by the window so we could watch the festivities—well wrapped of course, for we have no glazing on our windows (I am told that Lithgow has glazing on all the bedchamber windows and in the great hall). Then Robert began shouting at me about something I could not understand (he was very drunk), and then one of Stephen's men (Henry, I think, though it was hard to tell in the dark) asked why I did not disport myself with everyone else. I held up Ella to the window, and told them she required constant attendance, whereupon Stephen tossed an apple through my window. By the time I extracted it from under my mother's bed where it had rolled, it was dusty and bruised but still plenty good. I tossed the core back down to the yard and said it was for the pigs to eat, and that Robert could help himself. Everyone laughed but Robert.

* * *

_**1st day of November, Feast of All Saints**_

As I spent most of last night with Ella instead of drinking and reveling, I must now nurse everyone else who overindulged. All Saints Day indeed.

* * *

_**2nd day of November, Feast of All Souls**_

Stephen leaves tomorrow. Though I have spoken to him only a few times and, I fear, acquitted myself none too well, it will be a dreary winter, for there will be no more feasting till Christmas. Now that he is leaving, I am still not sure what I think of him. There are far worse men I could be married to, but I wish he were not so serious always. He is still a stranger to me, and although I have not seen him act rough or cruel or vulgar, I also have not seen him laugh freely. I have no idea what he likes, other than (apparently) dogs and writing.


	2. Chapter 2

_**3rd day of November, nones**_

They have gone, and all is quiet. Sorry though I am for the feasting to be over, I am not sorry to have respite from our guests. I can never be entirely easy when Stephen is about. He is too grave.

* * *

_**3rd day of November, sunset**_

I have had a great shock this evening. When I came to my room I heard a chirping, and thought at first a sparrow had flown in and not been able to find its way out. But then I saw a flash of yellow in my row of empty bird-cages. A lark, with a rolled-up bit of paper stuck between the bars of its cage that said only "Orpheus." No one knows how it got here, and there is no name to the note (except the name of the bird). Did Stephen leave it? And why?

* * *

_**5th day of November**_

Aelis has gone back to her family until she is wed to Robert after Christmas, when she will live here at Stonebridge. It seems cruel that the dearest wish of my heart—to have Aelis for a sister true—should be fulfilled just before I am to leave forever.

* * *

_**10th day of November**_

The days grow short and the nights bitter. I must thaw my ink by the fire before I can use it. It is too much effort. I will leave off writing until I feel better. And warmer.

* * *

_**25th day of November**_

Feast of St. Catherine. The last feast we shall have before Christmas. My mother gave me a length of ribbon embroidered with my name in red thread, and said that it was from Ella. I shall miss her—my mother and my sister.

* * *

_**29th day of November**_

Advent is begun, and I am resigned to naught but fish for a month. I shiver through chapel each morning, shiver through dinner, shiver through games of chess with Morwenna and shiver in bed.

* * *

_**6th day of December**_

Still shivering. Can think of naught to say.

* * *

_**12th day of December**_

I feel very dull. I began my monthly bleeding last week. My mother says she would have had a special pudding made for me, only we are still fasting for Advent. I know that she worried that I did not begin it, for I am sixteen already. Morwenna says I started late because I am too contrary to do anything by another's laws, even the laws of nature and God. My mother says it is because I lack sufficient flesh to spare each month, although I do not see why Robert's first wife Agnes could conceive when she was so much smaller than me. I suspect Morwenna is right after all.

* * *

_**26th day of January**_

I have not written in well over a month! And even now I have only a few moments, so I will have to sum up.

This Christmas Odd William found the bean in the king's cake and was crowned Lord of Misrule. At first all went along with it in jest, for he is the dreariest person we all know, but when he made his first proclamation that all should be quiet for Christmas so he could get on with his texts, we held a mutiny and lorded Andrew the muckraker's son instead.

On the fifteenth we celebrated the wedding of Aelis and Robert (she looked exceedingly lovely, but they disappeared almost immediately and were not seen again for a whole day, so I could not tell her so).

Other than that, there is little new to report. You see, diary, why I do not write more.

* * *

_**3rd day of February**_

I wish my monthly bleeding had waited forever to commence. It is such a waste of blood.

* * *

_**20th day of February**_

All I ever do is sew wedding-clothes.

* * *

_**18th day of March**_

The ground begins to thaw. It is decided that Robert, Aelis and I will journey to Lithgow just after Easter. As busy as we were preparing for Stephen's visit and the betrothal, we are twice as busy now. I have been riding Blancmange near constantly, to get her pudgy body in shape for the journey, which is expected to take at least two weeks.

_**22nd day of March**_

Got caught by my mother wading in the duck pond because I saw something shiny at the bottom and thought it might be a piece of fairy gold. She called me a magpie and asked when I will ever grow up. I said never if I can help it, whereupon she sighed and turned away. Sometimes I think she does not know what to do with me. I will miss her.

* * *

_**25th day of March**_

My wedding dress is finished and packed away for the journey. It is exceedingly lovely, the loveliest thing I have ever owned. I saved a scrap of fabric to tuck into these pages safe from the sun. It is the only kirtle I have all of silk, and I know that my father grumbled at the expense, but my mother convinced him that we should not shame ourselves before the Baron Selkirk. I think it is exactly the color of the Virgin's veil, although from what I have seen few brides are truly virgins, and I cannot think why they all wear blue.

* * *

_**26th day of March**_

I tire of fish and dried apples. What I would not give for a bit of bread pudding with raisins!

* * *

_**1st day of April**_

I have not written much because I spend nearly all my time with Ella, trying to paint her little face on my memory as I would paint it on my wall. She loves me best of anyone except my mother and her wet-nurse, Aeldrid. I know because she claps her hands when she sees me, and fusses if I do not pick her up at once. I will miss my mother and Morwenna, but they will not change as quickly as little Ella does. She is bigger every day, and smarter too. She knows how to point to Orpheus when I say his name (though sometimes she gets confused and points to Brutus instead).

* * *

_**5th day of April**_

Easter tomorrow. The day after, we depart. I tremble all over to think on it. It seems years since I met Stephen, and though now I know what he looks like and how his voice sounds, he is still a mystery to me. I think on last October, when I wrote that I hoped I would like him, and I still hope I like him, for I don't know him at all yet. I have learnt not to let my imagination run away, for it will only lead to disappointment (as it did when he didn't look like Geoffrey). I am resigned to his unremarkable looks. Should I resign myself to an unremarkable man?

* * *

_**6th day of April**_

Easter Sunday! The Lord is Risen! And for once on Easter, the sun shone, but it could not thaw my worried heart. I leave all this behind at dawn. I have not let Ella out of my sight all day, which could not make her happier. How I will miss her! I am drawing a picture of her to remember always, for the next time I see her she will likely be half-grown. Lithgow is far from Stonebridge.

Why must everything good end so quickly?

* * *

_**17th day of April**_

I have hardly written at all, for my inks have been in my trunk and not easily reached. But we are at the Inn of the Silver Egg two nights, so that Aelis can recover from a grumbling gut, and I have decided to dig out my paper and pen.

Travelling so long a distance is less pleasant than the comparatively short journey to Edward's monastery. I am bumped and bruised all over. At least the countryside is pretty, though after a while it does tend to run together like a page caught in the rain.

There was some excitement a few days ago—on the 12th or 13th, I do not remember. Highwaymen accosted us, but they were not quite the vicious, daring pirates I might have hoped for. They mostly looked like draggled shepherds which I think is what they were before they turned to robbery. They wanted to go through our things, and Robert wanted to fight them, but then very cunningly Aelis cut through the cords holding our ale and wine to the back of the cart. They rolled away with a thunderous noise, first startling the highwaymen and then drawing their attention, and while they were giving chase to the runaway casks, we made our escape.

I have twisted Stephen's ring around and around for luck every hour since then. It is beginning to wear a groove into my finger.

Aelis is cleverer than one would expect of a girl who chose to marry the abominable Robert.

* * *

_**21st day of April, after complines**_

Have arrived at Lithgow Manor. Too late and tired to write except to say we are here. Wedding tomorrow.

* * *

_**23rd day of April**_

Wedding yesterday, and as I am spending the day aching in bed I have plenty of leisure to recount it.

I slept late because we arrived so late, and when I woke I wandered about the manor looking at things until Morwenna found me and dragged me back to get ready. Here is what I discovered:

Lithgow Manor is enormous. It would swallow up Stonebridge in a trice. They have five separate bedchambers. Five! Think of it! At Stonebridge we have but one, plus the solar where my parents sleep and a storage room that is partly given over to guests. Everyone else, men and maids, must sleep on the floor of the great hall. Here Stephen and I share the large solar with a tiny room next to it where two of Stephen's men and his squire sleep. The tapestries in this room are finer than any I've seen outside of a church. I would be ashamed to paint on these walls.

Outside there is a blacksmith, stables, baker, kitchen, buttery, and other buildings I didn't get to before Morwenna found me. There is a garderobe behind the main hall and pots in all the bedchambers. There is real glazing on nearly all the windows here! The whole place is almost as light inside as out!

The floor tiles in the great hall are patterned in grey and cream, which means that they have to be swept every day for we would not lay down rushes and hide the pattern. But there are plenty of people to do the sweeping. I have never seen so many house servants, all running about and calling to one another and singing while they cook and polish. It makes the whole place feel very cheerful, except that I am so much on the outside of it.

Here was a shock: Stephen has a sister and a ward living at Lithgow! I had never heard of either of them before. The sister is seven and named Elsbeth, and the ward is fourteen and named Adela. The first thing Elsbeth did when she saw me that morning was to ask me where Orpheus was and could she play with him (now I know it is Stephen who left Orpheus in my chamber, though I still don't know why). Adela sniffs a great deal when I am around. She is engaged to a lord who is only thirteen and waiting to finish his term at a different relative's manor before they can marry. God's thumbs, I hope he finishes it soon!

Adela, Aelis, and several of the ladies who live here got me ready in midafternoon. Adela wore an exquisite kirtle of green silk, with a golden belt about the hips, that made me feel very dowdy in comparison, but Elsbeth told me my dress was the loveliest she's ever seen. Adela was nothing like so pleasant.

First Aelis and Adela bathed me in a tub in the solar, scenting the water with rosehips and scraping at the coarsened skin on my hands and legs with rough-woven wool till I was raw. Aelis braided some of my hair with ribbons, dressed it with white amaryllis, and left the rest loose, and it was so sunny today it almost looked golden...if you squinted. She cleaned my teeth with a stick until my gums near bled, cleaned under my fingernails and toenails, and washed my face and hands with a mixture of oats boiled in vinegar. Then to be rid of the vinegar smell she rubbed onto my face and hands an ointment of rose and mint.

On went the yellow knitted woollen hose, shoes of buttery brown leather, a fine white linen shift, and my blue silk kirtle, with pearl buttons down the front and at the wrists, and embroidered birds about the wide neckline. My girdle was much more modest than Adela's golden one, being only silk velvet embroidered in flowers of red, yellow and green, with pearl beads sewn as dew onto the petals. Still it is the finest thing I have ever worn and Aelis assures me I looked as fashionable as any at Castle Finbury.

Aelis wouldn't let me eat a bite once I was buttoned into my kirtle (I didn't mind, I was much too trembly to eat).

Then we went out to the church and did much the same as at our betrothal, only instead of saying "I will take you for a husband," I said "I do take you for a husband." and then we went in to Mass, being newly made man-and-wife, and finally returned to the great hall for feasting. The hall was decked out in flowers and looked very fine, and there were minstrels to play, though my favorite was that Elsbeth brought Orpheus from my chamber and hung his cage behind Stephen and me. At least one thing was familiar.

Stephen again tried to engage me in conversation, and this time did not give up despite my long silences. I did not mean to be cold, but I was overwhelmed by the noise in the great hall (it holds many times more people than the one at Stonebridge, and is higher-ceilinged and stonier, and therefore many times louder). I am unused to so much attention from strangers, being as plain and drab as I generally am. I suppose pretty clothes have their downside too. I was too nervous to eat very much, but between us Stephen and I did share a cup of wine and a saffron-cake (I do not like saffron and had to wash away the taste with figs, which were luckily abundant).

After what seemed a whole day but was only an hour or two, Stephen's men surrounded him and carried him off, and then Aelis and Adela and the other ladies surrounded me and hurried me up to the bedchamber, where I was stripped of all my clothes except the shift and deposited in the large bed. Then they all left except Aelis, for we heard the men coming.

"Don't worry, Birdy," said she comfortingly. "It will not hurt long, and soon you will love coupling as well as he. Do not look as if it were your death-bed, for Heaven's sake!" Then she kissed me and left just as the men appeared, shoving a mostly-undressed Stephen toward the bed and making the same coarse jests that all do, be they rich or poor. Then they left and we were alone.

Stephen stood there in his linen braies, orange in the glow from the hearth, and seemed unable to think what to say. I was very busy looking everywhere but at him, equally unable to speak.

"Thank you for Orpheus," I said at length. "He has kept me good company."

"It gladdens me to hear," said he. A silence.

"I worried that I offended you," I said, "when I told you I loosed all my birds."

"You could not offend me," he said, sounding surprised.

"I offend most," I admitted. "My mother despaired of ever making me a fine lady. My father despaired of marrying me off. Morwenna despaired of making me obedient. I seem never to be what others wish. I skip and run and shout out-of-doors, and I play with the dogs in the yard, and I sneak food from the kitchens at night. I frightened off all of my other suitors by blacking my teeth with soot and muddying my clothes and pretending to be a lack-wit. I even lit the privy on fire once when a suitor was inside, though I only meant to make a little smoke." I do not know why I felt compelled to give him an account of my childishness, but perhaps the one cup of wine had loosened my tongue. The room by this time was dark, and I could not see Stephen's face for he was between me and the fire, and perhaps it was easier to talk to him thus.

"Yes," said Stephen, "I had heard some of these tales. You dirtied your face and cackled at my father's men when they went to bargain a bride-price, did you not?"

"I did," I said. "I was surprised when it did not work."

"Was it marriage in general you wished to avoid, or my father particularly?" asked Stephen, and it occurred to me that I mightn't wish to start my wedding night by telling my new husband how I loathed his now-dead father. Yet for as grave as Stephen is, I did not fear he would hate me. I cannot tell that he ever feels anything as strong as love or hate, as he seems always to have the same polite, detached expression. And so I decided to tell him the truth, or a version of it.

"I did not wish to marry anyone," I said, "but as you see I have got over that now. I ran away from home to my aunt Ethelfritha, hoping to avoid wedlock, but while I was gone I realized that it happens sooner or later to everyone, and that I will still be me even as Lady Selkirk. So I returned, and that is when they told me I would be marrying you instead. And I was glad of it," I added boldly, "for I heard that you read and write."

"That is true," said Stephen, sounding again surprised. "Do you read?"

"Yes," I said, "and write also. I keep account of my days, and my brother Edward gave me a book of saints, though I have finished it now. I love to write but am mostly made to sew and weave instead."

"There is a library at Lithgow," said Stephen, "and another at Castle Selkirk. I did not know you could read and write, as well as paint." He smiled at me, then. "All I knew of you was that you were mirthful and beautiful; now I find you are learned as well. It is my good fortune to have gained your hand." I suspect he was teasing, for he cannot truly have heard anything good about me.

"Nay," I contradicted, "you are wrong in that. I am not beautiful at all, or high-bred or wealthy, my Latin is very poor, and I am never as silent as I ought to be. In truth I know not why your father courted me at all."

"I believe he looked forward to acquiring some land that lies between two of my father's holdings. Or mine, I suppose I should say." So my father did not take any of Shaggy Beard's land, as I had assumed he would. Apparently instead Shaggy Beard paid him highly for both me and my mother's land. Either my father will use the money to buy more land near Stonebridge, or to enrich the manor itself. That explains Shaggy Beard's curious resolve to have me to wife. Does it explain Stephen's willingness to take over the contract in his father's stead? He could have done much better, and he was not obligated to fulfill his father's promises. So why did he take me when he did not need to?

"Well," I said at length, "I hope that you will still like me even when you have seen how noisy and unladylike I am most of the time."

"I am sure I will like you well," he said with a rare smile, "for you have not disappointed yet."

It seemed as good a time as any to commence with the marriage, and so I slid over in the bed and folded down the covers to make him room. He took off his braies, came to the bed and got in. I peeked at his body from the corner of my eye, but did not see much before he was hidden by covers, other than that he is very tall which I knew already.

I have known since I was small what goes into the making of babies, and so was somewhat prepared. It did not hurt so much as I expected, but it was very uncomfortable. Stephen said frequently how sorry he was for causing me pain, till I pretended it did not hurt anymore just so that he would stop apologizing. Then he kissed me instead of talking, and it was very unlike the only other kiss I ever had from a man (from Perkin, a sad kiss as his granny had just gone to God). I am still not sure what I think of kissing and coupling. They both seem more silly and cumbersome than pleasant. I was relieved when it was over, and I could go to sleep.

When I woke my thighs were crusted with dried blood and other things, and my husband was gone. I laid abed some time, looking out of the large window which faces the south. Then Stephen came back in, full-clothed, carrying a large flat box fashioned of pearwood.

"Good morrow, Lady Catherine," he said. "How do you feel?"

"I will be well enough anon," I said.

"I had planned to give you aught else this morning," he said, indicating the box in his hands, "but when you told me how well you love to write I thought to give you this instead." He placed the box on the bed beside me and watched while I slid away the inlaid cover. It holds a goodly quantity of stiffened quills dyed in pretty colors, a sharp knife for trimming and erasures, a rod of hard-grained wood for the ruling of straight lines, and six or seven colors of ink. The lid is large enough to rest the pages on, should I wish to write where there is no table. And it locks with a little silver key which I am wearing on a ribbon around my neck.

"It is a beautiful gift," I said. "I thank you. I am sorry to have nothing for you."

"You gave me my present already," said he with a laugh—the first time he has ever laughed for me alone. But it was a kind laugh, not a mocking one.

My new husband may be remote and mostly a stranger, but he does give good gifts. And I like his laugh, little enough though I hear it.

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ I am not really expecting too many people to read this, given that there isn't even a category for this book on the site. But if you do read it and form any opinion at all, be it good or bad, please be a dear and leave a little review to let me know what you think!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**25th day of April**_

Am feeling better and the ache is mostly subsided. I've drunk barrels of chamomile steeped with honey, and Aelis gave me an infusion of vinegar and yarrow to treat my spoilt maidenhead. Stephen has held off touching me much, except a kiss goodnight. But I know he wakes from his first sleep wishing I were better, for I feel him stirring beside me and see the lump he makes in the bed-clothes. Probably soon I will have to go back to playing wife. I wonder will it feel any pleasanter the second time around?

The rest of my time has been spent acquainting myself with my new home. Mostly I like it here, for though it is colder than Stonebridge in the south, the sun is brighter and shines oftener. We are very near the moor, which sends off it strong wind which blows away the clouds and the stink of cesspits. It will be very cold in winter, but with glazed windows and thick wall-coverings, this manor is still less drafty than Stonebridge. I expect it will feel about the same to me when I am indoors.

Adela took me all around yesterday and introduced me to the servants, from the steward down to the scullery-maids. I have already forgot most of their names, though the steward is called Wymer and the cook is Thom Ale (he drinks a great deal but his cooking is good enough that no one minds). Then this morning Elsbeth took me by the hand before I had even said my morning prayers and dragged me from one place to the next, showing me all of her favorite hiding-places. They do not do morning chapel here every day of the week as we did at Stonebridge, only morning and evening on Sundays and mornings on special feast days. Praise the Lord! For I love Him much better when I need not yawn and scratch through a droning service.

Also my new little sister showed me:

1\. The best mouser in the dairy has a new litter, still sticky. Together we named them Tansy, Buckwheat, Porridge, Violet and Mallow. We spent a long time cuddling their little bony mewling bodies.

2\. A place in the herber where roses climb the walls. Although they are not flowered yet, the green stems are beginning to show buds. She says fairies probably nap in the climbing roses once they bloom. I think she is very likely right.

3\. The bedchamber she shares with her nurse, Adela, and the ladies who live here. She took great pride in showing me her puppets-on-strings, including the Queen Annadel and the King Sweet Billiam (she named them when she was very young).

I like Elsbeth. She reminds me of me, though better-tempered. I think she does not like Adela very much and must be glad of a new sister who is more interested in kittens and less in being superior. She is the first seven-year-old I have talked to much since I was seven myself. She can be loud and prone to fits of giggles, but I am glad to like at least one of my new sisters. It helps me miss Ella some less. Elsbeth wanted to hear about Ella until she learned that I left behind Brutus and Peppercorn and other dogs, and then wanted only to hear about them.

* * *

_**27th day of April**_

Have visited the library. It is a small closet near where Wymer the steward keeps his records. Most of the books are in Latin, though there are a few in German which look promising. There are more scrolls than books; even so, the books alone must have cost as much as much as Stonebridge was to build.

Less excitingly, I have resumed wifely duties. They no longer hurt but are unremarkable, mostly good for giving us something to do when we wake from first sleep. At home I used the wakefulness between first and second sleeps for wondering and remembering my dreams (if I had any). Fortunately, coupling does not intrude much on my wonderings, as my body only and not my mind is required to attend.

* * *

_**1st day of May**_

May Day, and a glorious one it is! I rose at first light, then clothed myself in one of my new kirtles (bright green, fine-woven wool, and smocked to fit me tight about the body). Aelis and I dressed each other's hair—I wear it in two braided bunches over the ear now, instead of down or in a net as I did before I was married. Then we joined Adela and Elsbeth and the ladies who live here.

We all went out to the herber just as the sun was beginning to come up, to bathe our faces in dew before the sun dried it from the flowers. Then we gathered up as many armfuls of flowers and greenery as we could carry, to bring to the green outside the manor where the Maypole was already planted.

A villager named Margery (I think she is the miller's daughter) was crowned Queen of May, and we all gathered about her throwing flower petals until the Green Man came up, his hair stuck all full of twigs and leaves, with moss on his clothes. Then the girls from the village danced around the Maypole, skipping and winding the colored streamers which were half the time caught away in the wind. Elsbeth danced with them, against Adela's wishes, for I told her she might. This earned me scowls aplenty from Adela, but even more smiles from Elsbeth. A fair trade.

Then in for dinner of fruits and pale wines, stewed capon, cod, lamb and white pudding. Stephen and I drank mead, it being still our first month of wedlock. Elsbeth was determined to sit by me, and near pushed Aelis out of her seat until Stephen admonished her. But I privately promised that she might sit by me soon. I do not know why she likes me so much; I am unused to having anyone think so well of me, and have never considered myself to have a way with children. Has Ella softened me?

Later, over cheese and fruit, Stephen said, "Elsie loves you already. It pleases me she shall have a lady to teach her, for Adela is normally too busy and her nurses too low-born for the task."

"If she would be taught to climb trees and dawdle out-of-doors," I said, "then I am her teacher. But my lady-ing skills are sparse, Lord Stephen."

"She goes in a year to her aunt my mother's sister," said he, "who will teach her to do whatever it is ladies do. For now it is well you are her sister. My father did not like her to play with villagers, and she has had but little of society."

No dogs indoors, no villagers. Is there aught the man did allow? I count it more and more my fortune to have been spared the vile Shaggy Beard.

After dinner there was dancing in the great hall, spilling out through the courtyard to the greensward beyond the gates. There were pipers and fiddlers to join the usual minstrel. Which reminds me, there is a minstrel who sings for the Selkirk family only! At Stonebridge we had but the occasional traveling troupe. This one is named Ralf Silvertongue and gives Elsbeth and Adela lessons in singing and harping. I am relieved my family was too poor to teach me music. I love writing more, and am content to sing no better than a cottager.

* * *

_**3rd day of May**_

Good news! On the 19th until 22nd of May we are to hold a tournament, to celebrate the end of our honeymoon! I have never seen a tournament and thrill to imagine it. Preparations have already begun; the ladies who live here at Lithgow—Adela, Clarimond, Lettice, Amelia, Matilda, and Gwendolyn, and more about them anon—have charge of arranging prizes for those men who prove valor at the tournament. There will be visitors from afar, some from Baron Selkirk's other holdings, some from nearby manors. There will be feasting, music and games for ladies and children, and of course fighting for the men. They will fight in leathern armor, with wooden swords and bark shields, for it would be unlucky to have our honeymoon end with a pile of dead knights.

I will write now about some of the ladies who live here. Clarimond is a woman of twenty-five or older, and was one of the late Lady Selkirk's women. She is sober in general, but becomes red with excitement at the mere mention of a tournament or a hawking. Lettice is a girl of thirteen, here to learn to be a lady from Adela, and she is shy and quiet. I have heard her say hardly three words together since I've been here. Amelia is my age, with a personality as dried-up as a raisin. I do not like her at all, for she is constantly looking for some chance to prove her superiority in thought or deed. Matilda is a noblewoman of rare beauty, but will likely never marry for her family has more daughters than money, and so she lives here. She knows she is beautiful, but is mostly good-natured. Gwendolyn is a noblewoman from the south who was likewise attendant on the late Lady Selkirk. She is old as my mother and often making sly jokes. I like her best of the ladies here, though I do not like how much she teases me about being newly-wed.

The prizes for the tournament are to be trinkets, cloth, animals both useful and ornamental, and for whomever we deem the victor of all, a jeweled helmet. Stephen will fight in the tournament but has said he will not take any prizes, as he is the one giving them. I plan to make him something, but do not yet know what. I cannot think what he would like. I will ask Elsbeth.

* * *

_**5th day of May**_

Still at a loss for what to award Stephen if he should win. As it is the ladies who determine the victors, I will be sure he wins something, even if he is a miserable horseman, jouster and archer. The prize cannot be embroidery, for my embroidery is as ugly as his singing. It cannot be jewels, animals or cloth, as those would come from his own stores and would not be gifts at all. Elsbeth suggested a song, but I do not need a hundred strangers to hear me warble some silly thing I made up myself. Lady Gwendolyn suggested a variety of gifts to be bestowed at night, which would simultaneously please him and bore me.

* * *

_**11th day of May**_

The tournament draws nearer, visiting knights have already begun to arrive, and I still have no idea what to give Stephen.

* * *

_**15th day of May**_

I have thought of it at last! I hope it is finished in time. I found in one of Stephen's stores some pieces of horn, shaped roughly into small flat ovals. On one of these I am carving a portrait of myself, since he has none. I first polished the horn smooth and drew the design on a fragment of paper. Tonight I will transfer it to the horn by poking holes through the drawing with a needle and rubbing ash through the holes onto the horn. Then I will carve it with the pen-knife he gave me, and rub ink into it to make the picture stand out. I hope he likes it, for though I am no beauty I am a well enough artist. I will save the original drawing in case I ever forget what I looked like when I was sixteen.

* * *

_**19th day of May, late**_

This was the first day of the tournament, and it was more extravagant than the fair at Wooton. There were archery contests for both women and men (separately, of course), with ribbons and lengths of cloth as prizes for the best. Clarimond took away most of the prizes, and says she plans to sew herself a new riding habit with the wool she won. Horseshoes for both sexes, quarter-staff and hammer-throwing for the men, with prizes of carved wooden staves for both. Feasting at dinner, dancing and revelry after. Stephen did both archery and staff-fighting, and was better at archery than everyone else except his squire Aelfraed. He was poor at quarter-staff however, as he is too tall to duck or jump fast enough.

I am tired and excited for tomorrow, and so I will sleep.

* * *

_**20th day of May**_

Today there were contests of strength in the morning and then, after everyone had gotten a little drunk at dinner, plays and pageants in the afternoon. The ladies and some of the men put on a puppet-show with Elsbeth's puppets. Lady Gwendolyn and Stephen's man Audric were meant to voice some puppets in one scene but could not be found so I did the voices instead, to Elsbeth's delight. They later showed up with hay in their clothes. I suppose Lady Gwen was trying out some of her own advice.

Later there were improvised plays, the best team earning prizes of a talking parrot in a gilded cage, a carved wooden menagerie, a silver knife, and three woolen cloaks with clasps of silver. Robert was on the winning team and took the wooden menagerie. He says he will give it to Ella as a gift from me. I think being married to Aelis has softened him, for he hardly ever torments me any more, save when he is ill from putrid stomach or ale-head.

* * *

_**21st day of May**_

First day of mock-battle. Awarded three silver pins, a velvet cap, a gold ring, a box of pearl buttons, two fur-lined cloaks and a potted tree to various knights.

* * *

**_22nd day of May_**

Final day of the tournament, horseback games all. First jousting, with prizes of pet squirrels in jeweled harnesses. Then, after dinner, horseback mock-battle, with the best prize of a ruby-crusted helmet going to a knight from nearby Tellywyck named Maddox. I was too shy to give Stephen his present in front of everyone (the ladies took it in turns to give out the prizes, and I had only to award the helmet) and will give it to him later. Adela tells me tournaments are usually much bloodier when they are not celebrating a wedding, but I am relieved no one suffered worse than cracked ribs, bloody noses, broken teeth and blackened eyes.

* * *

_**23rd day of May, morning**_

Gave Stephen the portrait last night after first sleep. He said he will have it set in a golden frame with a hole at the top, so he can wear it when he goes next autumn to visit his other holdings. I did not know he would have to go so soon. I am not sure what I feel about it. On one side, Stephen is so very austere that it is impossible to be entirely comfortable with him. But then, I have gotten used to having him around. Morwenna has said that if I can be content with familiarity and an absence of dislike, I will in time be happy with my marriage.

But I confess, I always hoped I would love my husband passionately as in the songs. Should not my heart beat against my ribs when I think of him? Should I not long for him when he is gone? Should I not welcome his nightly embraces, instead of enduring them? So far I have felt nothing about him other than admiration for his manners and his cleanness, and for how well he treats his littlest sister (as a little sister myself I can appreciate this). And his gifts, of course. When I hear him converse with his men, he is witty and intelligent and even occasionally relaxed, but with his wife he is forever guarded, even when complimenting me, even in the midst of nightly tumbling. He must think me as much a stranger as I think him.

It gives me a headache to think of things to say to him most of the time. And though he seems to like me well enough, I do not suspect him of any more passion for me than I have for him. As relieved as I am that he is not worse, I will also be relieved to have a break from him.

* * *

_**30th day of May**_

Aelis and Robert are gone home to Stonebridge. I miss Aelis already. I have begged her to come for another visit as soon as may be, and to bring me as much news of my family as she can.

* * *

_**4th day of June**_

Stephen took me today to the moor, some of which is counted part of Lithgow. I rode Blancmange, who has been getting too fat of late, and he rode his charger Tacitus (fittingly named, I think). It was half a morning's ride, but well worth it, for on the moor is a little castle-in-miniature! It was of old surrounded by a wooden bailey and other buildings, but they have since burnt down and now the stone motte is all that remains. There is a shallow moat fed from a stream nearby, in which little fishes swim. It has only two round rooms inside, one stacked atop the other, with crenellations at the very top. Behind the castle is a walled-in pleasaunce, quite large, all full of roses and tulips and amaryllis, with moss-covered stones for benches.

Apparently Lithgow was the land Stephen's grandfather's second wife brought to the marriage, and source of much of the Selkirk wealth, and the lady had no wish to live in any of the other holdings further south which were more built-up. So she stayed in the old wood-and-stone castle until it burned down, and then in the stone motte with only a few servants until she died. They ate no meat save mutton and lamb from what wild herds live on the, growing their food in the walled-in garden and moor. After she died Stephen's mother had it dug up and planted for a pleasure garden.

I find the moor frightening in its bigness, yet it gives me a strange, excited, pleasurably hollow feeling in my belly when I look at the clouds racing the birds across the sky. I wish I were a bird. Or a cloud.

No one here knows to call me Birdy. I never sew or embroider or do any of the things I used to do. I mainly mix up remedies for illnesses and injuries, or talk to the servants and sometimes the villagers who come to me with every little thing. When I can't find an answer for them, I send them to Wymer the steward, and usually trail along behind them to see what he says so I will know in future. I have less time for dreaming than I used to, but I more like the way my working-hours are spent. Anything is better than embroidery. And Lithgow daily grows in my heart. There is so much sunlight here. However much I miss my mother, Morwenna and Ella, I find myself often excited to wake and remember that I live here now.

If only I felt the same about Stephen.

* * *

_**20th day of June**_

Very busy of late. Too busy to write, even. Have spent all of my time helping Wymer with household accounts, for he spilled wine on a whole stack of them and must copy them out afresh. Other than Stephen (who is far too busy), I am the only one in the house who can write legibly enough to suit him and so have taken on the task. My hands ache. At night the words accepted: garters, woven, 20prs Thomas Weaver and given: ale, 3 casks, Barth Miller swim before my eyes.

* * *

_**23rd day of June, Midsummer Eve**_

Bonfires, feasting and dancing all evening. Thom Ale baked a fine large pie crust and later filled it with live sparrows, so that when the top was cut open they all burst out of it and flew around trying to find the way from the great hall. Except one who apparently was pecked to death inside the pie. I remember last Midsummer, when I was so worried about getting married. Now it seems as if I have always lived here. If I'd known what Lithgow would be like, I would not have dreaded coming so much. The fleas and the noise and the busyness are the same, but the sky is bigger here in the north.

* * *

_**24th day of June, Midsummer**_

Treated twenty-six men for putrid stomach, saw twenty-four of them prescribing themselves more ale at dinner today, expect to treat the same ones again tomorrow. Treated no women, who are more sensible about these things.

* * *

_**1st day of July**_

Joe who mucks out the garderobe twisted his ankle and fell in and no one knew he was down there until this morning. Bound his ankle to a strong stick and gave him basil and caraway in honey-water for his heaving stomach.

* * *

_**5th day of July, Feast of St. Morwenna**_

I miss Morwenna.

* * *

_**7th day of July**_

Elsbeth and I made up a story about a maiden who ran away to be a woodcutter, binding her breast and cutting off her hair to pass for a boy. In the story, the maiden chops down a tree with a magical bird inside, who gives her three wishes in thanks for its freedom. First she wishes never to go hungry, next she wishes for a home in the woods, and last never to be found by her pestering family. So the bird turns her into a tree.

Adela scolded Elsbeth for making up a story about a girl pretending to be a boy, and then I scolded Adela for having no imagination, and then Lady Gwen scolded all of us for keeping her from a tryst with one of the squires with our squabbling. I think she was joking, as she is twice as old as the oldest squire...but Lady Gwen can be winsome when she chooses. I wish I had as much joy in tumbling as she does, but frankly it bores me near tears. Once I woke from a dream of a lad who looked something like Geoffrey and something like Perkin, and my blood was boiling, but when I turned to Stephen I lost the feeling and have not got it back.

* * *

_**11th day of July**_

It does not get as hot here as it does in Stonebridge, and even when it is hot the wind blows fresh. But it will be cold in winter.

* * *

_**16th day of July**_

Stephen leaves in a month to tour his other holdings. He brings with him most of his men and squires, and the undercook. He leaves behind his steward, Thom Ale, all the dogs, and me. I do not know which one he will miss the most. Probably Thom Ale, who can make a pie out of anything. I will be glad to have my nights to myself again.

* * *

_**27th day of July**_

Vomited all this morning. Too sick to write.

* * *

_**28th day of July**_

Missed my latest bleeding. Gwendolyn says I am probably with child, as I've been vomiting so much lately. Can eat nothing but bread until my stomach settles.

I do not know what to think or feel about this. I have a fluttery feeling inside that might be fear or might be something else, and which is unrelated to the ill.

* * *

_**30th day of July**_

Bleeding resumed. Not with child. I am glad I didn't say anything about it to Stephen, for he would have been disappointed.

* * *

_**2nd day of August**_

Adela is beginning to work earnestly on wedding-clothes, though as far as I can tell her wedding is no closer than it was when I first came. She glares at me when I do not help, but I cannot help if I am too busy. Besides, if she knew what my sewing is like I doubt she would want me anywhere near her wedding-clothes.

* * *

_**9th day of August**_

Stephen seems extra-amorous now that his departure draws nigh. I say amorous because I do not know what else to call it, but the word seems hardly fitting. He turns to me sometimes two or three times in a night, yet he never drops his formal manner. Even his kisses are meted. He has never seen me full-naked, nor I him since my peek the first night—in general there are bedclothes and underthings obscuring the view, and we bathe apart.

Every time I've stumbled on someone snuggled in a haystack, there have been hushed giggles and whispers. If giggling is meant to be a part of love, then I can only conclude Stephen does not love me. If he ever giggled in my hearing I believe I would sink into the earth with shock.


	4. Chapter 4

**10th day of August**

Elsbeth cries when she thinks of her brother leaving. I sigh—but with relief. I need my sleep.

* * *

**15th day of August**

Stephen gave me a hand-mirror of polished silver today, inscribed on its back with a picture of two hounds biting each other's tails. It is a pleasing image and made me smile, but I would rather he'd given me a jest—just one!—as a parting gift.

* * *

**17th day of August**

Stephen and his retinue are gone and Lithgow feels strangely empty without them. I know that Wymer will run the place as well as if Stephen were here, but I confess that I dread some ill befalling the manor while I have its charge. I slept not a wink last night, for though I do not miss Stephen's attentions I do miss his breathing, even and slow, as he sleeps beside me.

I've invited Elsbeth to share my bed tonight as it is too big with just me in it. She fair danced with glee to sleep apart from Adela, who (she says) shushes her just for breathing.

* * *

**18th day of August**

Elsbeth kicks.

* * *

**26th day of August**

I am all in turmoil and know not what to think. I feel too wretched even for figs, though I have done no wrong. This is what has happened:

Frith the kitchen boy was caught taking leftovers from dinner and sneaking them out of the manor, though no one knows what he does with it and he will not tell. I do not greatly object to the occasional pilfering of food. After all, I am often in the kitchen myself, to eat bits of this or that. Everyone does it.

But Frith takes great quantities of bread and fruit and ale, regularly, over the course of a week. That is the food that is meant to go to the villeins at the gate. If we do not feed them our leftovers, they do not eat. It is in the natural order of things, and Frith has upset it for no good reason. Thom Ale now tells me this has gone on some time, and though he beats the boy black and blue still he steals. So Thom came to me.

What to do? I think Frith must lose his place. It is terrible to have to decide a thing like that.

* * *

**27th day of August**

Have talked to Wymer, who agrees with me that Frith must go right soon. He offered to tell the boy but it is my duty, and so I called him to me in the Great Hall after breakfast. He raged and sulked, and I felt lower than worms. His family will suffer without the wage he earns here, and with the additional mouth to feed at home. But then, he shouldn't have stolen.

When I used to imagine myself as chatelaine of a grand manor, I did not imagine this. Frith is my age, and generally did not cause problems. But he could not be let to go on stealing from his lord and master. Did I do right?

* * *

**1st day of September**

Harvest was begun in August and draws on apace. At Michaelmas there will be a feast for all the manor and cottagers. I will have to plan it. I have eaten at feasts aplenty, but never yet planned one. Adela smirks and offers to do it herself, as she always has in the past, and so of course I am resolved to do it all alone.

* * *

**25th day of September**

God's thumbs, feasts are expensive! The numbers make my head swim. Wymer assures me the harvest is good and we can well afford it, but at Stonebridge we dealt mainly in cloth, sheep and apples, not in coin of silver and gold. I will have to get used to it.

* * *

**29th day of September, Michaelmas**

Feast today. Happily no problems. Thom Ale had help in from the village and even Adela found little to criticise. Strangely, I wished Stephen were here, for though he is very severe I would have liked him to see how the feast went off. I wonder how he does at Fleece? For that is where he probably is right now, unless he was detained by weather or misfortune. No doubt he has feasted all day as well, and thought little of his unremarkable wife.

* * *

**1st day of October**

The days are short and the nights cold, but the sky over Lithgow remains bonny and bright. I have never seen a November so clear. Lady Gwen tells me it is always that way here. The moors to the north and west swallow up the clouds. She has lived in Scotland and in Kent, and declares Lithgow best of all. I am inclined to agree.

* * *

**3rd day of October**

Teaching Elsbeth her letters; apparently Shaggy Beard did not think it necessary to teach his girl-child to read and write, which accounts for Stephen's surprise at hearing I can do both. Elsbeth is bright but prefers to play outside, and I cannot say I blame her. She leaves Lithgow in the spring. I would have her writing before then, as I know she is unlikely to be taught to write at Dindale.

I have found it necessary to lure her to her lessons with gifts of all sorts. I first thought to give her toys, but have since struck upon a better plan. For every lesson that she gives her full attention, I write out a page of a story we are devising together. This method is of three distinct benefits:

First, that bribery works wonders and she attends closely when a reward is promised.

Second, that her lessons now mostly concern the progress of our story instead of saintly texts in Latin, and so she has something interesting to think on.

Third, that when she does leave Lithgow for Dindale she will take the story with her. This I hope will encourage her to continue reading and writing even when I am not about to hound her.

Adela turns up her nose at our lessons, I think only because no one ever taught her to read.

* * *

**4th day of October**

Busy, busy, I never was so busy in my life! I have a new appreciation for my lady-mother. I do not pretend to have sole governance of Lithgow—Wymer does much more than me, and I find I must refer to him more often than he must refer to me.

Still my days are kept very full. Ordinarily I rise with the sun (and Elsbeth, who wakes me up if the sun does not) and perform the usual ablutions. Lady Matilda rises soon after and helps me to dress my body and hair. Then a bit of breakfast ale and bread, after which I am usually trapped in the Great Hall until dinner, addressing and doctoring and arbitrating for the villagers who come to me at that time. Before he left, Stephen usually did this, but as he is gone now it falls to me.

This morning, for example, there was a dispute over the ownership of a kid, an appeal for new thatching on a cottage with a leaky roof, four cases of grumbled guts from eating spoiled fish, an argument between the miller's son and the stable boy about who should marry Berthe, the green-eyed niece of Thom Ale. And each one requires a remedy, which as often as not is just to sit and listen for what seems like hours as endless tales of woe are recounted.

After this I usually go for a walk in the herber or in the lane to clear my head, and by the time I get back it is time for dinner, for which I am amply ready. After dinner, I visit Wymer in his closet to look over household records of wine and sundries. This usually means an arduous accounting of linens, for I have discovered if I am not vigilant they do wander away. I also oversee the changing of bed-linens about once every two weeks. Lithgow has a king's ransom in linens. I tremble to think of the spring-cleaning ahead, with so many sheets and woven blankets to wash. At Stonebridge there were fewer beds to cover, and the linens were changed no more than four times a year, which was easier but gave rise to more fleas.

After all this, I spend a few hours in the solar with the ladies while they sew—this is when I teach Elsbeth her letters, or do anything else to avoid embroidery or tapestry-weaving. I do not mind sitting with ladies in a solar if no one has the power to press me into sewing.

Finally, supper in the Great Hall. Occasionally at this time there are visitors to be welcomed, tired from their day of travel from wherever to wherever. If they are important, I receive them in the solar, and if they are not, the Great Hall suffices. Generally in the evening are backgammon and chess with Adela, Lady Gwen or one of the others. Over a game of chess, Adela is quite civil to me, probably because I am so easy an opponent.

In between all of these, if there is time I might play with the dogs outside with Elsbeth, or visit the cottagers, or paint or write or wonder. But there is not usually time for that, for it is a busy season. Still, I like most of the work, especially as no one tries to drag me about by the ear, saying "Catherine do this," and "Catherine do that." It is easier to enjoy busyness when you can pretend it is your choice to be busy, I find. I am happy enough. Orpheus still sings, and I still dream.

* * *

**5th day of October**

Percy from the stables took a kick to the chest this morning. At least one rib broken, and fluid in the lungs. Have bound his chest and given him hyssop in hydromel, but I worry greatly.

* * *

**6th day of October**

Percy pale and gasping. I am as competent a doctor as any, but can see no way to rid his lungs of water or ease his breathing.

* * *

**7th day of October**

Percy is dead. He drooled blood all night, spasmed at dawn and did not stir again. I suppose this will make Berthe's decision much easier, for he was the stable boy who wanted to marry her.

* * *

**16th day of October**

I can hardly believe it is a year since I met Stephen. A year ago I still lived at Stonebridge and dreamed of what my new home and husband might be like. I still do not know much about my husband, but my home I love well. The sun still shines, though the air is cold and sharp as fresh-pressed cider.

* * *

**18th day of October**

Elsbeth has been asking me all month to take her to the rubblestone keep on the moor, but I have been too busy. It is but a morning's ride away, and so I have told her we might go soon if the weather holds. She assures me it always does this time of year.

* * *

**20th day of October, Rubblestone Cottage**

Elsbeth sleeps this minute with her head on my knee. The pale sunlight turns her blue-veined eyelids to marble. I will have to wake her soon if we are to ride back to Lithgow before it is dark. Adela and the ladies are busy at archery and games on the other side of the house; I can hear them from here. Elsbeth says she misses Stephen greatly but is glad I am here. The first I do not agree with and the second I do not understand. I make no especial pet of her yet she clings to me. I think she has been very lonely.

* * *

**24th day of October, noon**

Oh Lord! No time to write save to say that a rider came this morning to say Stephen was thrown from his horse and will not wake from a fevered restless sleep. I have packed all my remedies and go this very hour to Selkirk. It is the manor closest to Lithgow, only a three-day's journey under normal circumstances. Pray God he is still alive when I reach him. Little though I know him, I am not ready to be a widow.

* * *

**25th night of October, at Fernwith Manor**

I packed my writing things in the box Stephen gave me and have kept it near, and I am glad I did, for I am too restless for sleep yet. I cannot but lie awake and think, and none of my thoughts are good. My heart is struggling in my breast and I am greatly afeared. So I will write down more of what I know, though it is not much.

Yesterday morning Sir Audric arrived at Lithgow, bruised and sweating from a hard ride. He made the journey from Selkirk in a day and a half by changing horses frequently, and rode the last one near to death. He is now bringing me to Selkirk, and we hope to finish the journey in no more than two and a half days, but it is slower travelling for now there are two riding horses and a pack horse loaded with what I saw necessary to bring. We are staying the night at Fernwith Manor, which is about halfway and friendly to Baron Selkirk. I am writing by moonlight in the ladies' chamber.

Audric appeared suddenly at Lithgow yesterday and charged into the Great Hall where I was talking to George Carpenter about some renovations to the house.

"Milady!" he cried out, and pushed everyone aside to reach me. "My lord is grievously injured. You are needed at Selkirk at once!" He then explained that Stephen and his men were a-hawking when a wild boar bolted from the underbrush and charged straight at Tacitus. The charger then reared in terror, throwing Stephen some distance, where he was trampled under boar-hoof. None of his organs were pierced, praise God, but the femur of his right leg pierced the flesh and he suffers from various other bruises and scrapes. The bone has been set and they have done all they can for his bodily wounds, but the blow to his head has deprived him of his right senses. He swims in and out of wakefulness—or at least, that was the state of things before Audric came to get me.

I ran straightaway to the solar, packed my remedies, my writing box and an extra shift, changed into a kirtle and cloak fit for travel, and departed with him that hour.

So here we are at Fernwith, and will depart after first sleep so as not to waste time. I think I am tired enough to close my eyes.

* * *

**27th day of October, at Selkirk**

I am arrived, and my husband yet lives, but he is seldom conscious and raves in his delirium. He is quieted a little now, and I will endeavor to write all I can before his thrashing is renewed. (He is tied to the bed at present lest he upset his injured leg)

The journey here was uneventful, though it seemed to take an age. We reached Selkirk at nones yesterday, and I had but little chance to see the place before we were passing under the gate and rushing up to the solar where Stephen is laid out.

I will confess that the sight of him caused me a shock. His eyes are ringed with dark bruises, his skin too pale and bloodless despite a high fever. The room is kept very warm, every draft stuffed and every blanket in the house piled on Stephen's bed. At once I called for a bowl of pale wine and some linen cloths, as well as the cleanest water that could be found. Then I tried to bring his fever down by the simple expedient of laying wine-soaked cloths on his forehead and fanning them until they began to dry, and then repeating it.

My arms are as sore as they've ever been from hours of this, but his fever seems less and he is a little quieter now. I've been trying to get him to drink an infusion of chamomile in old vinegar and salt, but he will not swallow. I will try again as soon as he stirs.

There is one thing that puzzles me: why did they go to such lengths to bring me? There are women aplenty at Selkirk who have the same or better skill at healing than I. Are they so certain he will not survive that they called me to sit by him until he is dead? My mind goes in circles and I can think of no other reason.

* * *

**Later**

Lady Mildryth, who is a cousin of Stephen and the chatelaine of this house, brought me some bread and ale and I asked if she knew why I had been called when time seemed so short.

"Why," she said, sounding surprised, "because he called your name among his other ravings."

"He does not seem to know I am here," I said a little sadly.

"Aye, my lady," said Mildryth. "He is far away now, but mayhap he will come back."

If all I can do is sit by until he either comes back or goes away forever, then I will. I am an impatient person by nature, the more so when I see how frail Stephen's hold is on life. I am steeping bloodwort in rainwater to bathe his wound once he is steadier. Other than give him more chamomile and try to bring down his fever, I can think of nothing else to do but pray.


	5. Chapter 5

**28th day of October**

Stephen worsens. His fever has returned, hotter than before, and now he raves openly, sometimes speaking in tongues, sometimes in English. Elsbeth cried and clung to me when I left, and I promised to send word as soon as there is anything to tell. I wish I now had someone to cling to, but it is only Stephen and me in here, with Audric or Mildryth coming in to bring me a little food or whatever medicine can be found in the herber. It is the wrong season for most of the plants I need, although they are still growing strongly at Lithgow which has better sun for it. I must make do with dried, and what fresh I could bring with me.

His ravings frighten me. I have no skill to save him from this. Only God can.

* * *

**Later**

I have begun singing to him because I can think of naught else to do. Sometimes songs I used to sing with Aelis and Morwenna and my mother. Sometimes songs I make up myself. I doctor my throat with mint and wild honey so that it will not give out until...well, so that it will not give out.

Please God, let him live.

* * *

**29th day of October**

I tried not to sleep but could not prevent it. This morning I awoke to silence, the first true silence in this chamber since I have been here.

His fever is broken and his heart yet beats.

He is still asleep, but it seems at least a more wholesome sleep. He does not toss and turn, he does not sweat and pant and shout out. And so I bathe his face and sing to him. I do not know if he hears me. I do not know if he will ever wake.

* * *

**Later**

Praise God! He is alive and I think will live for many years yet! I did not even know how afraid I was. My heart could float away.

Here is how it happened:

Last night I fell asleep sitting by the bed. I slept so soundly that morning was already much advanced by the time I even began to stir. Before my eyes were even opened, I heard a voice croak,

"You sing like a bird, Lady Catherine."

At once my eyes sprang open on the happiest sight I ever saw: Stephen, haggard and dirty but alive, apparently back in his senses and looking at me in the light from the brazier. I wanted to hoot for joy, and then I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide, but instead I did something much more childish.

I burst into tears and wept for a quarter-hour together.

I am not ordinarily prone to fits of crying. Shouting, yes; singing, of course. I never saw the point of crying, but I could not help it. I buried my face in the clothes and cried and cried until my eyes were crusty with salt and my mouth was dry as an old bone. And all the while Stephen patted my head awkwardly and said things like, "Shhh, shhh, lady, all will be well." I wanted to stop, truly I did, but oh, I was so afraid for him! He may be a stranger but I know him well enough to think him a fine man, a kind one and good. And perhaps mixed up in my mind were fears that he would die and, having given him no heir, I would have to go back to Stonebridge. I did not know until this very morning how much I have come to love Lithgow. I hardly know if it is Stephen I was afeared for, or the specter of leaving my new home. I think probably both.

At length I quieted and sat there hiccupping and looking at him. I could not think what to say.

"I heard you singing," he said at last. "It was you, was it not?" I nodded mutely. "I thank you for the songs then," he said. "When did you come here?"

"Audric came to fetch me five days ago," I said. "I have been here for three. Your cousin Mildryth tells me you said my name in your delerium."

"I do not recall," he said indifferently, as if he had not just escaped a gruesome death. "Lady Catherine, is there aught to eat or drink nearby? I have never been so hungry in all my born days."

"Aye, my lord," said I, suddenly feeling somewhat ashamed of my outburst and determined to make it up by being useful. So I gathered up the dinner that had been brought for me not long ago. Stephen began to reach for it but was still bound to the bed-posts from before. He jerked his hands a few times in confusion before he saw where he was tied, and then he began to do something that I would never have guessed was possible:

He laughed!

Oh, I have heard him laugh before, with his men or Elsbeth, a few times with me. But never like this. It was a laughter so unconstrained that I was almost glad he was yet tied, or he might have injured his leg still more. I sat there stupid and mute, boggling at him. He laughed until the breath wouldn't come, and then panted some while more.

"Forgive me," he said, wheezing. "You must think me a madman. It is only that I have had such dreams these last days, and to wake and find at least one of them a reality..." He trailed off, laughing again.

"I am sorry for your nightmares," I said hesitantly, knowing nothing else to say.

"Oh, no," he assured me, "Not all were nightmares. Some were, but not..." and then he turned as red as an apple and would say no more. I cannot think what he was talking about.

After I had untied him (he averting his eyes from me the while), he ate some of what was on my plate and drank a cup of small beer. I would not let him have more, for I have seen what happens when an empty stomach is expanded too quickly. And for all his high spirits he is not at all well yet, for he quickly tired and fell back into sleep. He is sleeping now, and so I am writing.

Can you imagine, diary, that the first time my husband should laugh for me—me alone—was after a deathly illness? He is a strange creature, far stranger than I suspected.

* * *

**30th day of October**

Have been singing to Stephen again, since I know now he can hear me and seemingly likes it. And this morning, can you imagine what he said to me when he woke?

"Is there any more to eat, Bird?"

My mouth fell open in astonishment. Not that he asked for food (I expected that, and in fact had a whole plate of bread and fruit and cheese for him, though I would not give it him all at once). No, I am astonished that he called me Bird. He has never heard another call me that, I am sure of it, for I asked him.

"How did you know I was called by that name?" I asked him.

"Oh, are you?" he said. "I did not know that. It is a good name for you."

And he has called me Bird since then. It sounds natural and pleasant in his mouth—so much less formal than "Lady Catherine," which was the only way he knew me before. A sickbed does curious things to a man, does it not?

* * *

**31st day of October**

All Hallows, and I am glad Stephen is awake, for it is ill-luck for mind to absent body when witches are about. He will be spared that mischief, at least.

I built up a fire and sprinkled it with herbs to ward off evil sprites, had a plate of food sent up from the kitchen, and then settled in to spend the evening with Stephen. He seemed low and so I asked him why.

"It grieves me that you should be trapped along with me," he said after a long pause. "You did not celebrate last year either, did you? It is a dull task, I fear, caring for me." and he glared at his thigh as if to blame it for all.

"But I do not mind at all," I said truthfully. "I do not know many people at Selkirk and probably would not go out in any case. Last year I was tending a baby, who could not keep me very great company. At least now I shall have someone to talk to. And you will not cry at every loud noise, I hope."

"I might," he said. "I am very afraid of witches; did I never tell you that?"

"Oh?" I asked. "What has a witch ever done to you, that you should fear them so specially?"

"It was a witch who sent that wild boar to trample my head," he said with a grin, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "I saw her in the bushes just before I lost myself. She was spinning a skein from the hair of her own head and chanting. She looked much like you, Bird-my-lady."

"Ah," said I. "How do you know she sent the boar? Perhaps she diverted its path at the last moment, thereby saving your life."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Or perhaps she sent the boar to trample me so that you would have to come and heal me. In that case, I cannot say I am sorry."

I had to look at my hands then, to hide the pink on my face. He talks as though he is...well, as though he is fond of me. Was he always like this? Do I rightly remember his distance and sternness? I am sure he never laughed and chatted like this with me before...but did he? Or is he truly changed, perhaps from the closeness of the sick-bed?

And thing one more, diary: if Stephen is the one who is sick, then why am I the one with the fever?

* * *

**1st day of November, All Saints Day**

Today Stephen and I played chess while he told me stories he's heard of far-away places. He has a cousin who went to the Holy Land and brought him back knotted rugs (which are in the library at Lithgow) and stories. There is a place beyond even the Holy Land, he says, which is populated by angels! It is a land so rich that the women there do not even cut and sew their clothes, preferring instead to drape themselves in hundreds of layers of the finest silks. Even the men dress this way. They even allow their silken hems to drag on the ground, because the worms there spin silk as fast as a person spins linen, and they can easily afford to let their hems be soiled. According to Stephen, they train crickets to sing in concert, and keep nightingales on jeweled leads. I am not sure whether to believe him or not.

* * *

**7th day of November**

Today Stephen insisted that I leave the sickroom for some air, and to see Selkirk. I at first resisted, but I admit I was longing to stretch my legs.

So Mildryth walked me high and low. She is a singular creature, oldr than my mother and a widow, and a merry one at that. She runs Selkirk with a firm hand, as I saw when she showed me the Great Hall and kitchens, the herber, kitchen garden, pleasaunce and orchard. Selkirk is perhaps half the size of Lithgow and lacks most of the modern conveniences of that place, but it is well-situated on a hill and receives a fair wind most times of the day, so that it does not stink. All the while Mildryth told me tales of those who populate this castle, most of them related to her in some way near or distant. The cook is her dead husband's cousin, the steward is her half-brother, and the chaplain is her uncle.

Stephen's chamber is a sort of solar that was later built in the inner bailey, near the original stone keep. It is on the second floor of the Great Hall, which is very small and low of ceiling. There was no kitchen originally built, as they did all their cooking at a fire pit in the Great Hall, though a small room abuts the Hall for the preparation and cooking of small dishes such as those that have no meat. The bakery, laundry and guards' huts are built in the outer bailey, which is large enough that most of the cottagers can take refuge there if ever there is an attack on the castle (which there hasn't been for a generation).

Truth to tell there is more outside of Selkirk than in it, for there is an herber packed with raised beds for medicinal plants; a kitchen garden which supplies the castle with beans, leaves and roots; a very large orchard inside a wall behind the outer bailey; and a pleasaunce of roses and rosemary and gilliflowers. I gathered a handful of late roses to bring back to the sickroom.

When I returned to Stephen, he let out a windy sigh and said,

"You smell of outdoors. Did you like what you saw?"

"Yes, milord," said I, "Selkirk is very prettily situated." Then I gave him the flowers I had picked. He smelt them and seemed very drowsy, and I amused myself thinking about places near and far while he slept.

* * *

**8th day of November**

This afternoon, after dinner and some chess, Stephen asked me:

"Has my cousin Mildryth told you aught of Selkirk's ghosts?"

"No, she did not." The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at this. Ghosts at Selkirk! I should have known, so old and venerable a place as it is.

"Well, milady," said Stephen, smiling mysteriously and patting the bed next to him, "Sit yourself and I will tell you some of what I know...that is, only if you think it will not fright you too much."

I knew he was teasing but of course I responded just as he must have wished, with my usual defiance.

"I am not afraid," I said haughtily, and climbed up to sit beside him. "Tell me."

"Selkirk was built two hundred years ago," said he, "which is more than enough time for a few ghosts to make it residence. I saw my first one when I was only a lad, still at my nurse's knee. We were here for a summer while work was done on Lithgow. One evening after supper my mother sent me out into the herber for buckbean to soothe her stomach. It was a full moon and so I did not take a rushlight, but as soon as I was in the walls of the garden a cloud passed over the moon and I could not see even to find the door."

At this I felt a cold tingle at my spine and settled closer to Stephen on the bed. He smiled in satisfaction and went on.

"Suddenly, I saw a light like the sparking of tinder, gone almost at once. I was so blinded in the dark that I felt around with my hands, hoping to bump into someone, for I could sense someone was in there with me. I could hear breathing, steady and quiet. I thought it must be my nurse or one of the kitchen boys, come to bring me a light. Oh, if I knew what I would find, perhaps I would have stayed stock-still until morning."

"Why?" I cried breathlessly, all haughtiness forgotten. "What did you see? Who was it?"

"I did not see at once," he said. "First my groping hand encountered a thin, clammy arm, as bony as a bird's leg. As soon as I touched it, it drew away, and I heard a sharp hissing, as of pain. 'Who is there?' I asked wildly, beginning to be afraid. I heard no response."

By now a cold sweat had broken over my brow. Why, I was in that very same herber only yesterday! It seemed harmless enough to my eyes, in the sunshine, but oh, how different a prospect in the dark!

"At last I heard a groaning voice say, 'Bind my bones and heal my wounds. Bind my bones and heal my wounds!" Stephen, who has naturally a very deep voice, sounded fair diabolical. "Then," he said, "I became very afraid, for I knew it was not the voice of a living person. It was a voice that had passed through fire to reach me. I backed away as fast as I could, searching for the door. Just as I found it, the cloud passed from over the moon. Unable to resist, I turned one last time, my heart not beating for terror. And then—I saw it."

"What did you see?" I cried, clutching at his hands. "Oh, tell me, tell me!"

"For an instant, I saw a figure, as small as a child but with the features of an adult, with every bone seemingly broken. Its arms, its legs, its neck and ribs were all bent at odd angles, so that it was crumbled in on itself. It looked like it must be held up with strings like a puppet, for it could not possibly stand on its own broken feet."

"God's thumbs!" I squeaked. "What on earth did you do?"

"I ran away, of course," he said, laughing. "What would you have done?"

"The same," I said resolutely, "but you will never see me going into that herber again. Not for a whole purse of silver!"

"I ran back into the hall, shouting and crying like a mad thing, and after my mother had scolded me for failing to get the buckbean, I was sent to bed without pudding. But my nurse came in and told me not to be afraid, for that ghost has been a part of this land since even before Selkirk was built. It is an ancient thing and has never hurt anyone yet."

"Does no one know where it came from?" I asked.

Stephen shrugged. "Some say it was a slave crushed by stones when the Romans were building their roads. Others say it is newer, a child born to one of my ancestors, unwanted and left to die on the hill. It did not die, but grew up as gnarled as a tree on a cliffside, for want of mother's milk. Or it could be even older, a sacrifice from the time when sorcerers ruled all of Britain, before even the Romans came here."

"I would have died of fright," I said. "I'll never go in there again."

"Oh, you need not fear this ghost," said Stephen, smiling slyly. "How can it hurt you, when its body is broken?"

"It can hurt me with magic!"

"I will keep you safe," he said, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. "They say once you have seen a ghost and been left unharmed, you are safe from evil spirits forevermore."

"Stephen," I said sternly, as I noticed that he had begun playing with my hair and holding me tight by the waist. "Is that story quite true?"

"'Pon honor!" he exclaimed, kissing my hands. "Would I lie to you?"

"Perhaps so that you could distract me," I said, "and then fondle me without my noticing?"

"I would never," said he, kissing the inside of my wrist. Then he looked up. "Why, is it working?"

"A little," I admitted. Stephen grinned and then kissed me by the mouth until my hair had frizzed and my clothes wrinkled.

I forgot about the ghost very quickly.

After a while Stephen asked if I might find some food, as neither of us had eaten supper. "I am suddenly in a great hurry to regain my strength," said he. So I went in search of a plate of bread and cheese, and by the time I got back Stephen was fast asleep.

And now I am writing this.

My heart is still beating fast. I thought that writing about my day might calm my nerves, but it didn't work. Stephen is sleeping beside me, and I keep looking over at him, wondering. I've no idea what to think of him. He does not act like any man I have ever met. At Lithgow, which was a prosperous and merry place, I thought him a moody sort of fellow. Yet now, in pain, confined to the sickbed with a broken leg and bumps and bruises that still show yellow against his skin, he is playful, telling stories and laughing freely. What on earth has wrought this change?

And why do his kisses, which so recently left me bored, now make me nervous and sweaty? I shall never get to sleep tonight. Probably because of all this talk of ghosts.


	6. Chapter 6

_**10th day of November**_

Stephen's leg bothers him mightily. I have been bathing it regularly in bloodwort and wine, then wrapping it in clean linen, and it is knitting closed well enough. It does not fester, but Stephen says it itches like blazes. He says all of him itches, from not having a bath in so long. Some parts more than others, I suspect.

It is the wrong season for this sort of behavior. I tell him so, and he sighs and then complains of his itchy leg. But I see him smiling when he does not think I am watching. I expect he is doing it to get a reaction out of me.

I have promised him a bath as soon as his wound is past the danger of infection. I had thought to have Audric tend his master, but perhaps that would be cruel of me.

* * *

_**14th day of November**_

Bath Day, and I declare that Stephen is harder to bathe than a puppy. I saw that his wound had knitted full closed, and then ordered a large shallow tub and hot water brought in, as well as curtains to hang about the tub and hold out drafts. The usual bathing-tub would not do, as Stephen must not get his wound wet or bend the leg (it is bound to a stout stick and will not allow for movement anyway). Luckily there are an assortment of large pans and things in the outbuildings, so one of these was cleaned and scrubbed well and brought to the solar. As soon as Stephen saw this, he let out a loud "Huzzah!" and would not stop singing in a voice like broken eggshells.

I had Audric lower his lord into the bath, and then he left unbidden. Straightaway Stephen sank as far in the water as he could. It was not deep, perhaps six inches and no more, with a stool at the other end for his leg to prop upon. Even with his body displacing the water it barely covered him.

I have been having very strange thoughts. When first I saw Stephen I was—if not displeased—then disappointed at how he did not look like a strong-limbed villager. I cannot think what I found fault with then. Perhaps the firelight that first night was too dim for me to make it out, but I think my husband more beautiful than I ever guessed. At first as I bathed him all I could think on was how he stank of sick-room, but then I cleaned away the stink and...

I blush even to write the words. But no one will ever read this but me, and so I will endeavor to try. You see, diary, in our whole year at Lithgow I never touched him as familiarly as he touched me. I mostly just let him do whatever he had in mind to do, participating reluctantly if at all. But now, bathing him, I had no choice but to run my hands all down his arms—stronger than I first guessed, for all they are so lean—and his legs and his neck and chest and stomach and...

At first I tried very hard to pretend he was just any other patient that I was treating. And for a few minutes it worked, only then he startled me by speaking.

"You are pink from the bath-steam, Bird," he said.

"Am I?" I asked, very nonchalantly I think.

"Yes."

There was a little silence while I cleaned between his toes and tried very hard not to be pink from bath-steam, and then Stephen let out a whistle and said, "God's wounds, what is that stench?"

I looked up at him in surprise and saw that his face was perfectly serious, although I thought I detected a wicked glint under his heavy brows. "It is you, my lord," I said, just as seriously. "But have no fear, you will be fresh as a flower anon."

"No, it cannot be me," he said. "How long is it since you have had a bath, lady?"

I glared at him and said, "I have bathed every day, sir, as well you know."

"How can I know, when I have not seen it?" It is true that I have always left the curtains drawn around the bed when it was time for my morning ablutions.

"You can hear the splashing," I said severely.

"That could be only your morning water," he said. "How can I be sure? It cannot be healthy for me to have an unwashed doctor. You could dirty my wound with your soiled hands."

"My hands are clean," I argued, "from washing you."

"But mayhap your legs are not," he insisted, "and your legs could spread dirt to mine of a night—very easily, I think. Lady, I think you had better have a bath too, or I shall never get well."

"I shall bathe in the morning," I said, "as I do every morning."

"Or pretend to do," he muttered. "How should I know?"

"You shall have to trust your wife," I said. "After all, she is a most thorough doctor." and then, with my hands slippery from soap, I ended the argument in a very definite way. It is the first time since being here that I think he has had any relief of that kind—and the first time in my life that I have volunteered it.

After his bath, the linens having been changed, Stephen was clad in a fresh clean shift and put back to bed. He mislikes being forced to stay so still all the time; and soon he may be able to get around with a crutch. But until then, groan and grumble though he may, in bed he must stay.

There is no reason I should be forced to lie abed, but as soon as the maids who changed the bedclothes were gone away, Stephen smiled at me, a sleepy and a happy smile, and said, "You were right, Bird. A very thorough nurse. I thank you, for I cannot be an easy patient."

"Nay," said I, climbing in next to him, "you are a very easy patient." His arms went around me and I settled my head under his chin, and although it was midday and I was not near tired enough to nap as he did, I was content to lie awake and hear him breathe.

And now I write. Oh, I wish he were well. He is in no more danger, I think, with the wound pink and fresh but full-closed, and the risk of infection passed. And that should be enough for me, to know that he is safe and will remain so. But I am selfish, and wish that he could get up and move about. I feel I am only beginning to know him, and the knowing can not come soon enough.

* * *

_**15th day of November**_

Today I made bold to open the curtains around the bed when I got up to make use of the basin of warm water that is left for me every morning. Then I looked over at Stephen (who watched me like a cat watches a sparrow) and said smiling,

"You see, sir, I did not lie to you."

"Yes, I see," he said, and I thought his voice sounded hoarse even for the morning. His eyes were as wide as soup bowls. I have been sleeping in a shift at Selkirk, although at Lithgow I usually went without. But I had to undress to wash. I was intending to change straightaway into my clothes, for it was none too warm in the chamber despite the fire.

Instead, I found myself going back over to the bed and climbing in next to my husband. I cannot guess what has come over me. At Lithgow, I endured but did not seek out Stephen's attentions—and that was when he was whole and healthy, and not saddled with a broken leg and lagging strength. The obvious answers—that I am taking pity on a sick patient, or performing my duties as a wife—do not seem quite accurate. I am not performing my duties as a wife, not precisely. Well, not in the way that people generally mean, that might lead in time to an heir. And although I do feel pity for Stephen, confined as he is, it is not pity that makes my blood pound in my ears and course through my legs. It was not pity that made me slide close to him, and kiss him till I was dizzy, and twine my legs about his. It was something, but it was not pity.

* * *

_**21st day of November**_

Business at Selkirk has carried on the while, without Stephen's intervention, but he is well enough now to be dressed and taken down to the great hall to meet with his steward and serfs as he used to do. I had planned, while he was thus occupied, to go out walking, but I tarried that I might be known to the villagers as their new lady. I would have scoffed at such a thing two years ago, but I now see that it is needful to be done. Now that Shaggy Beard is dead and gone, Stephen will have to visit his holdings every two or three years, so that his vassals do not forget to whom they owe their fealty. It is plain to see that he is a master they do not mind so much; even I, daughter of the lord, did sometimes hear the villagers grumble over my father's taxes and stingy ways. I think if my father had taken as much trouble as Stephen to remain ever in his people's minds, they would not have grumbled so. Although perhaps they would; my father has nothing like Stephen's courtesy.

After a time, Stephen was pale and worn, and had to be taken back to the solar, but I stayed to see all the rest along with Mildryth and the steward John Casket. It was the first time I spent a whole day out of the solar, and it was nice to be able to move about freely and talk to people. But it was also nice to go to bed.

* * *

_**22nd day of November**_

Stephen is stronger every day. He still cannot walk alone or put the least weight on his leg, but he can hobble if he leans on someone (usually Audric or me) or on the crutch Fat Timothy hewed for him. It is lucky his wound befell him here and not at Lithgow, where there are more stairs.

My name day is soon. I had not thought of doing aught to celebrate it, but Mildryth knew as soon as Stephen was out of immediate danger that there should be a feast, and a name-day is as good an excuse as any. I help her to plan for it, as I must have something to do while Stephen is busy being lord of the manor. It gladdens me to see him already putting on flesh, but who can blame me if I feel the smallest twinge that our quiet days in the solar are over? It was pleasant to learn that Stephen is not a stone but a tree, hard on the outside but plenty alive within.

* * *

_**23rd day of November**_

We have visitors. They arrived late last night, after I had gone to bed, and instead of rousing Stephen I greeted them myself, by reed-light. They slept in the solar with us, Selkirk having but one solar and one bedchamber which is stuffed with ladies and girls like a goose is stuffed with meal.

Our guests are Baron Tresain, who holds even more land than Stephen, much of it near here; his wife Bridget, his son Richard, and his daughter Helen. Being neighbors and relations (however distantly), they have taken over the house, and all is in uproar as we attempt to make Selkirk look like its master has not been sick for a month.

Of the Baron I know nothing, nor of his son who is Edward's age. His wife is red-haired and freckled, and I am not sure but I think she must be his second wife because she hardly looks old enough to have birthed Richard, unless she did it when she was five.

Of Helen I know little but that she is very, very beautiful, more beautiful even than Aelis. She looks as I always wished I might look, with hair as shiny and yellow as gold, large blue eyes, and skin like rose petals in cream. She is friendly enough, and offered to write out lists for me while I was talking to Jerome the cook about the feast in two days. So I know she can read and write, as well.

* * *

_**25th day of November, Feast of Saint Catherine**_

My face hurts from smiling at everyone who wished me fortune on my name day. I would trade all their wishes for just one: that our visitors would go, and that right soon.

I cannot help but notice how very white Helen's teeth are when she smiles at Stephen—which she does a little too often, I think.

I wonder if Stephen thinks she is very beautiful. My breast beats like a whole clutch of chicks is hatching in it. This is not a sensation to be cured with my usual remedies, I suspect. If Morwenna were here, she would know what to do. I did not even notice my own name-feast, for watching them. Is it me, or do they seem to be friends of old?

I asked Stephen about it at night, but before he could answer they came in to sleep, so he could not answer. I am not used to sleeping with so many people in my bed, for all I used to sleep that way every night. Stephen is on one side of me, Helen on the other.

I mislike the arrangement.

* * *

_**27th day of November**_

Oh Lord, what shall I do? For I discovered today something that makes me want to stamp my feet through every glazed window in this cursed house!

Stephen and Helen were once betrothed!

Mildryth told me, as if it were a piece of very savoury gossip which I would rejoice in hearing. Helen's side broke the betrothal first. It was long ago, when she was but ten, and the handfasting had not yet been performed. She has been married since then, after the betrothal with Stephen was broken. But I suppose that it was all done without rancor, for Stephen never says a word against her or her father, and seems positively brotherly toward Richard. Mildryth says he did not much care one way or the other, as he was only nine then.

Helen is beautiful and now a widow, and smiles a great deal, especially at my husband, and has even made him laugh several times, and I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!

I wish Morwenna were here. Or that I were somewhere else and had never met any of these people.

* * *

_**29th day of November**_

Have just read what I wrote two nights ago. I almost tore out the page, for it was a childish thing to write, and the one thing I must not do is be a child. Certainly not with Queen Helen wafting about.

Let me begin again. This time I will write nothing childish; I will even attempt to be just. But oh, little book, I have too, too many thoughts, and need help in sorting them out.

The first thought is this: Why should I despise Helen for being beautiful and charming? Aelis is beautiful and charming, and she is my dearest friend. I never hated her at all. Not as I now hate Helen. I mean to say that I do not hate her, and Helen has done nothing to deserve it, so I should be kind to her and remember that she is my guest, even if she doesn't bloody act it.

The second: Would I have cared about her smiles—and Stephen's answering ones—if she had come to Lithgow before Stephen's injury? It is hard to tell. I am not even sure what I fear. I am not afraid Stephen's body will stray from me, or that it would even had he all his health and vigor. Am I afraid he might love her still, having lost her once? Does he now regret that he honored his father's contract? When he performed the handfasting, Helen's husband was still alive. I suppose he only heard about her freedom very recently.

I suppose I fear this: that only now, having begun to understand what my husband means to me, I might lose him. If I had known he could tell stories, and that he would someday call me "Bird", and that his wiry body would someday make me break out in sweat and heat, and that the face I first thought plain and unremarkable would someday seem the most beautiful face I ever beheld—if I had known all this, and that it would take only a year and an injury that almost took him away, I would have tried harder to make him like me. I see now that I did not try at all. I wanted him to be everything I hoped for, an did not consider that mayhap I am not what he hoped for.

And now...

I have never felt so wretched. I never deserved him in the first place, only I was too self-absorbed to see it. It stops my heart to think he has given up on me.


	7. Chapter 7

**1st day of December, First day of Advent**

Stephen and I went outside today, for the sun was bright. There will be snow soon, but not today. Glowing braziers were brought out to the garden, and we both wrapt up well and were none too cold if we stayed by the fire.

"I wonder if it would be possible to get back to Lithgow before Christmas," said Stephen, squinting up at the sky.

"I think not," I said, for I do not wish to risk it. But then I thought of Elsbeth, and how she must be missing her brother. I wrote to tell her all was well, but have heard nothing back. Then I thought, it is not so bad a distance, really, if Elsbeth and Morwenna were at the end of it, and if it could put a long way between us and Selkirk (and all of Selkirk's worries).

"It rarely snows before January around Lithgow," said Stephen, still not looking at me, "and even then the snow is very little. With the carriage, the journey would be only a few days."

"And risk bad weather, bandits and misfortune on the way?" I retorted. "You are not healed enough, milord."

"Are you not in a hurry to return?" he asked, and I thought he sounded gloomy.

"Of course I am," I stammered. "I love no place so well as Lithgow. But you cannot make the journey—not yet."

"You do not have to stay here," he said. "The trip is no danger to you. I know there is little to do here at Selkirk, and it is not nearly so comfortable as Lithgow."

"It is comfortable enough," I said sharply. Then, to my shame, I felt tears starting behind my eyes, and thought of how I drove men away from my father's house, and now I think perhaps I shouldn't have done that: perhaps I have laid a curse on myself, that driving away men is now all I am good for. Else why does he say these things now? Would he have said them before Helen's coming?

And then I became angry, which was no more comfortable than the tears but at least more familiar.

"Besides, Sir," I said, my voice as icy as the frost on the grass and my heart boiling over with anger, "would you have me offend our guests by leaving before them?"

"No, of course not," he said quickly.

"Then speak no more foolishness." Then I stalked away, and directed Henry to see to his master.

I have never felt so many things at once. All of them hurt.

* * *

**2nd day of December**

All is bleak. Snow began in the night and now the world is dreary as the inside of an old boot. I have not been able to sleep at all, stuck as I am between Helen-the-Fair and Stephen-the-Incomprehensible. I lie there awake, fuming. I hear when everyone wakes from first sleep. Baron and Lady Tresain usually get up for a while, to sit by the fire. Helen ordinarily does not wake at all in the night, but sleeps right through. But last night she did wake, and went to play a game of chess with Richard. Then Stephen silently turned to me and saw that I was awake, and smiled, as if nothing were wrong. Then he had the gall to reach for me! But I was sure he was thinking of Helen, so I pretended my bladder was overfull and left the bed, and then pretended to be very interested in talking to Baron and Lady Tresain, and when everyone went back to bed Stephen and I both pretended to sleep. And now we are both extremely tired, with rings of blue about our eyes. I look haggard and unlovely. I don't care.

* * *

**December 3rd**

They leave in a few days, as Selkirk was just one stop on their way to a holding further west. Stephen should go with them when they go, and see if I care one stick!

* * *

**December 4th**

Stephen has been trying to get me to pay him more attention at night. As if I would, with my rival a finger's width away. Then he tries to get me to pay him the same sort of attention during the day, only we are hardly ever alone. I admit, we could be alone more if I would only take some trouble. But I do not want to be alone with him, not when he is so clearly thinking of another lady's smiles. At supper, he ignored me completely, and sat talking with Helen and Richard altogether! And then ignored me all night, too. So I can see that my suspicions are right.

* * *

**5th day of December**

Have I done right, being so cold to Stephen? Do I not push him more firmly away? I will be kinder. It is not his fault that she is beautiful and I am not. Anyway, I love him whether or not he loves me.

That is the only conclusion I can make. This must be love, from how sick it makes me feel. I want Stephen's love. I want it for myself, and myself alone. I realized today that Richard is very, very handsome, and then I realized that I hadn't even noticed it before, and then I realized that I don't even care if he does have bright blue eyes and reddish-gold curls. My eyes still go to Stephen's dark face and heavy brow, time and again, whether I will or no. I dream about him at night. I wake and want to turn to him at once, only I can't, there are a thousand reasons why I can't, and I am so confused.

They go away tomorrow, and I will try not to ruin everything as I always seems to do. I will be kind and polite and a lady. I hated when my mother would make me practice at being a lady, but now I see there is merit in learning not to act on every childish impulse. If I had better self-discipline, perhaps I would not now feel so low and mortified.

* * *

**6th day of December**

They leave in an hour. I have not been charming or gracious at all this visit, and I am ashamed that I have not tried harder to do as I ought; it has fallen mostly to Mildryth to see to our guests' comfort and happiness. So today I even made an especial effort to converse with Helen over eel pie at dinner. I do not remember a word either of us said, but I do remember that Stephen watched us with a strange look in his eyes.

* * *

**7th day of December**

God's thumbs, where do I start?

I cannot even think how to say what this last day has been like, but I will try—as a lesson to myself, should I lose my wits again in future as I did while Helen was here.

The very minute the Tresains' last cart was pulling away from our gate, Stephen took me by the hand and began to pull me out of the great hall and toward the solar. He has healed faster than I expected; at any rate, I had to run to keep up, for his leg has healed enough that one of his strides matched two of mine. Not saying one word, he pushed me ahead of him into the small closet that sometimes serves as our private chapel, and then turned and locked the door.

"Now, out with it," he said angrily, leaning his crutch against the table with the gold-leafed statue of Mary on it, kicking the one chair in front of the door, and then sitting in it. There was barely room in there for both of us together, and he was blocking the only way out.

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound haughty but instead sounding nervous.

"Ever since the Tresains came here you have made no secret of your dislike of me, and I would know why."

"I never disliked you, Stephen," I faltered, wondering how I could have been so stupid as to let him think a thing like that. I tried hard to see into his eyes to see how he took it, but he looked away.

"I know that I am not what you wanted," he said quietly. "I hoped we might be happy anyway. Worse pairs have done better than us, it seems to me. When you seemed to love Lithgow, and Elsie—I thought it might mean you might want me, too. Someday. Instead I have this." He gestured at me, and I felt horribly low and ugly and undesired.

"I am sorry I'm not beautiful and rich," I said, "and that I have interfered with your—" But before I could say more, he reached out and took hold of my hand and kissed it passionately, it being the only part of me he could easily reach.

"Whoever said you weren't beautiful?" he asked my hand.

"Well, I'm not!" I answered. I couldn't help a little sob coming out, but I mastered it. "Helen is beautiful. Aelis is beautiful. Adela is beautiful. I have never thought I was beautiful, Stephen. I have always known the truth."

"Yes, how clearly you perceive all, you worldly thing," he said, rolling his eyes at me, and I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

"I don't even know why you honored your father's contract," I said petulantly. "You needn't have. Since you are so dissatisfied with the arrangement—"

"I am dissatisfied," he said, "only because you do not love me as I love you. You try living like that, and tell me how you fare!"

"But I do love you!" I said, surprised into saying what I would not have had the courage to say otherwise. Stephen's eyes fair bugged out of his head and his mouth dropped open.

"Since when?" he asked, astonished. "I thought you did not like me at all!"

"I always liked you," I said, sinking into his lap for my legs would not bear my weight any longer. "I liked you before I knew you. Only you seemed so very reserved, and I am so very boisterous—"

"I love you boisterous," he said.

"And I do not sew well or smile prettily or play the lute—"

"I love your ugly sewing and your shameless smile and your wretched luting," he said.

"—And you know, I expected to like coupling for everyone said I would, but I am sorry to say that it has not moved me much until recently."

"Ah," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I am sorry. I have not had much practice before you, you see, Birdy, and I—"

"I am glad that you haven't," I whispered. "Perhaps we can practice together?"

And Stephen smiled and then kissed his answer against my lips and throat...and other parts. I think I shall like coupling very well, after this. Being in love does seem to make a difference.

"You must not tire yourself," I said in a whisper.

"I won't," he promised.

But he did.

* * *

**9th day of December**

We have decided to try the journey back to Lithgow, for we are both so happy that we wish to be happy there instead of here. Stephen's leg is healed enough that it no longer requires more than the usual amount of bathing, so long as it stays bound tight to its stick. I am longing to see Lithgow again. I recently told Stephen that I loved Lithgow almost as soon as I saw it, and he said that he thought I would, as it is the best place between all the four corners of the world. Then we talked of our home together until we had got really homesick, and that was when we decided. I am fluttery with eagerness to spend Christmas in the place I love, with the man I love. We leave in two days' time, and I shall not write before then, for we will be much too busy—with one thing or another.

* * *

**16th day of December—at Lithgow**

You cannot think what a noise Elsie made when our carriage got near. She could not be restrained, even by Adela, and darted out like a sparrow to greet our carriage. She flung herself in both our laps at once and began talking very fast about a great many things that had happened at Lithgow, mostly things she has seen or discovered or made. She wrote Stephen a story and was going to send it to Selkirk with a rider, and was delighted instead to give it him in person.

Just as soon as Stephen's men had got all the carts unloaded and Wymer had got things more or less in hand, we escaped the fuss of the yard and went up to the solar to be alone.

"What did you truly think when you learned you would be getting me instead of my father?" Stephen asked, leaning on his crutch and pretending not to mind very much what the answer might be.

"I was so relieved I near cried," I said honestly. "I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, Stephen, and so I should not speak at all. Your father was not my choice and never would have been."

"I did not know," he said. "I thought—it seemed you were disappointed to get me instead."

I made a face at this, saying, "He was twice my age, and cruel to my dog."

"Most women liked him very much," said Stephen, seeming surprised. "And he was not so very old. More unequal pairings are made every day."

"Stephen," I said, putting my hand to his cheek. "You cannot convince me I wanted your father. I heard him ridicule you for being learned and clean, and then I knew that there could never be any sympathy between us. I tried to drive him away, for he was the worst of all the suitors I ever had, and when it did not work..." Then I told him the story of the bear that sealed my fate, how I ran away, and why I came back. "When I knew it would be you I would have instead, it made no difference to anyone at all but me. I felt as if I had been reprieved at the very brink of a hanging."

"But you seemed to dislike me so!" he said. "I thought surely you were wishing I was more like him."

"I am sorry for that," I said. "I always did think you a fine man, but a stern one also. I could never be easy with you—until now. You seemed so far away even when you were close."

"Well, I liked you at once," he said. There was a glitter in his eyes, and I marveled that I had ever thought him stern. "I saw you playing with my dog and with Ella, and then I observed how kind you were to Elsie, and I thought you must have a very good heart. That you should be bonny and laughing—only when you thought I wasn't watching, of course—and that you should read and write and paint, and that you were clever and good-natured also—it did not seem to me that one other in a thousand could be your equal. Every time I reached for you, I could see that you wished I wouldn't, and I thought I must go mad from loving someone who would not love me back. I did think that if I went away to visit the holdings, it would cool me, and when I came back I could be as indifferent to you as you were to me, but it did not work, not in the least. I only wanted you the more, Bird-my-Lady."

I could not think what to say to this. I had no idea he noticed anything at all about me. All that time, for him to see that I did not resist him but neither did I try at all to enjoy him—and now, knowing what I was missing out on all those months, while my husband lay beside me, wanting me to love him and fearing I never would—! Then I felt my shame renewed, for while he was noticing things in me that pleased him, I was just as busy finding things in him to displease me. It was only when he was at the edge of life that I could do as Morwenna bade me—to forget about what was in my head and think instead on what was in my hands.

But my husband would not let me feel ashamed for long, before he made me feel a great many things that left no room for shame. He is a good man, and I love him heartily, and will try all my life to deserve him. To think he believed that I was pining for Shaggy Beard, while I thought he was pining for Helen—who he tells me is as dear to him as a sister, so that he could never think of her as a wife without feeling his guts twist in rebellion at the unnaturalness of it! I could burst from laughing. Indeed, I laugh so much and so easy lately that I fear I may laugh myself to death.

The sun is bright and the sky blue. Elsie is making marchpane kings and queens of Christmas in the great hall, Lady Gwen is helping Adela to finish the dress for her wedding in the spring, there are villagers to see and talk to and doctor. There are a thousand things to be done, and the best of all is that I will not have to do them alone.

Goodbye now. Stephen is waiting.

_End_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Please review and let me know what you thought!_


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